


The Price of Brotherhood

by LadyCavil



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Rage, berserker rage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-26 11:42:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5003428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyCavil/pseuds/LadyCavil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Brotherhood is the very price and condition of man’s survival.” -Carlos P. Romulo</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Snow_Glory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snow_Glory/gifts).



> Is berserker rage a trigger? If it is, WARNING WARNING WARNING.

Porthos tired of being used as bait or assigned to some ridiculous mission alongside his brothers, but there they were once more. On this specific occasion they’d been tasked with drawing out a particularly nasty fellow with nefarious and violent plans. Said individual, one Englishman by the name of William the Grim, had amassed a small yet growing following which made him one of the Musketeers’ endless priorities.

The plan had been to sneak Grim’s wife out of his camp in order to lure him away from his main force, and Porthos couldn’t argue with that logic. As much as he loved a good fight, fewer fanatics with swords was always better. And this part of the plan had been executed with perfection. The four Musketeers managed to pass the woman off to a secondary team without being detected, and then when William drew near they led him on a wild chase. The trick became staying alive and uninjured while they waited for Tréville to show up with a larger force to take William into custody.

 _“We need him alive,”_ Tréville had said. _“The king wants him brought to Paris for questioning.”_ Porthos rolled his eyes at the memory. Having abandoned their horses nearly half an hour ago, the Musketeers were dodging and weaving through a thickly forested area. This too was part of the plan. _“Get him on foot. It’ll be easier to take him down. I’ll meet you in the meadow.”_ He decided to tell Tréville exactly what he thought of this plan the next time he saw the captain.

Athos saw the designated meadow sprawling before him and found new energy as he tore across the open space and shot rent the air. At the very least he and d’Artagnan managed to dive into the cover of the trees on the other side several seconds prior to William and his lackeys emerging into the clearing behind.

"Come now, gentlemen, I've no wish to play hide and seek. Surrender now and this will be much easier on all of us." The man waited what was surely considered the appropriate count among villains before sighing as though he'd just been told the kingdom had run out of toast. "Well, then I suppose we'll do this the hard way."

At the wave of their leader's hand, several men staggered out of the tree line dragging a barely conscious Porthos between them. They dropped him, unceremoniously and without care or compassion, at the feet of their commander.

From his vantage point Athos witnessed Porthos' struggle to regain some level of uprightness and awareness and observed how the movements of his friend's limbs were uncoordinated and sloppy. Porthos maneuvered his right hand across his frame to apply pressure to the wound painting his left side damp crimson, but the approach was too fast and clumsy, delivering him more pain than aid. Athos watched his shoulders slump, could hear the ragged gasps of his brother's breathing even from that distance.

"Damn," Athos muttered and let his forehead fall against the bark of the tree sheltering him from view.

"What?" d'Artagnan, squatting behind a bush adjacent to his leader's position, could not see the scene unfolding in the meadow.

Athos held up three fingers and counted down. D'Artagnan assumed from Athos' resigned expression that whatever was going to happen at the countdown's end was something of a common occurrence which displeased Athos immensely.

When the count hit zero, two shots rang out with hardly more than a second between them. Two enemy henchmen fell dead as Aramis stalked out of the forest.

"What is he doing?" D'Artagnan demanded in a harsh whisper, having moved to see once the gunfire shattered the air.

"They just _had_ to hurt Porthos," was all Athos said in return.

D'Artagnan looked between Athos and Aramis several times until he could no longer tear his eyes away from Aramis unsheathing his sword and prowling before the six remaining lackeys, William having put several paces between himself and the man with murder in his eyes.

"Athos," the Gascon breathed, unease coloring his voice.

"Stay back."

"We can't leave him to fight six men all on his own," he pleaded.

"Leave it, d'Artagnan."

"Athos!"

"His mind is in a different place right now. He's not thinking in terms of friend and foe. He sees only Porthos and men endangering him. If you go out there, he won't hesitate to kill you with the rest of them."

D'Artagnan looked to Athos with a hopeful light in his eyes. "We only have to stall for time, right? You said Tréville’s bringing help."

Athos gave a slow nod and turned his back to the tree before easing down to the ground.

"What if Aramis needs help?"

"He won't. Let’s just hope the captain arrives before Aramis can get to our target."

D’Artagnan watched in tense silence as their enemies drew closer to Aramis, felt his stomach begin turning at the pleasure their upcoming actions seem to bring the marksman. Gone was his typical finesse, his grace in motion. Some primal and predatory instinct devoured it and left an animal in its place. Like a wolf, d'Artagnan thought even as Aramis unleashed a feral snarl at any man who so much as breathed in Porthos' direction.

He recalled when Athos wanted to press on despite Porthos’ dire shoulder injury. Then there was the memory of when he himself questioned Porthos’ innocence after the murder trial. In those instances Aramis snapped at his _friends_. How brutal would Aramis be when faced with _enemies_ causing Porthos harm?

The tension in the air grew so thick d’Artagnan wondered how they were able to draw breath. He lifted his foot to step out into the clearing and do God knows what when Athos suddenly broke the silence of their hideout.

“There are old Norse tales of men who fight with a wild madness and fury. They call them berserkers.”

D’Artagnan tore his gaze from the marksman to look at Athos, and he wondered how Athos could appear so calm, head leaned back against the tree’s trunk with his eyes closed and breathing steady, when he knew what was about to transpire.

“Although there are those who believe mushrooms were involved in those instances.” Athos opened his eyes and turned to meet the younger man’s stare. “I used to think they were nothing more than legend…” He cast a glance to where Grim’s henchmen grew ever twitchier. “Then I met those two.”

Aramis waited for one of them to make a move, allowed their fear to drive them to carelessness. His heart beat with wild anticipation and his breath came faster than normal. As he prowled back and forth before them he briefly considered how much more addictive that protective rush was when compared to his usual lust for danger. He felt his hold on his mind slipping as the need to preserve his brotherhood swept him away like waves out to sea, but he held out for as long as possible. He knew what happened when he got like this, rather he’d been told what happened. He never remembered it, and perhaps that’s why it was so addictive: he wasn’t kept in check by the haunting memories of his actions.

 _The plan. The plan. Remember the plan._ He couldn’t let the Grim die, or all of this would be for nothing. He couldn’t let Porthos’ pain be for nothing. He looked at his brother; he bled into the dirt not two feet from where Aramis stood. If there had been any shred of hope that Aramis could somehow regain control, it was crushed in that moment. No one hurt Porthos and got away with it. No one.

When at last one of the men stepped forward, Aramis' vision reddened and he lost control.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because berserker rage is not gentle, neither are my descriptions of what’s about to happen. I have adjusted the story’s rating accordingly, so please be advised that this chapter is graphic (maybe Braveheart level graphic).

Weariness crept into every fiber of Porthos’ being, but he fought it valiantly for his own sake, for Aramis’ sake. God help the world should he die on Aramis’ watch. Giving up on remaining upright, he allowed gravity to carry him to the ground; from there he could preserve his strength and keep an eye on his terror-inspiring brother.

The further away William inched, the closer to Aramis the lackeys moved, and Aramis’ focus remained solely on the half dozen men drawing their swords and attempting to form a loose circle around him. His knees were bent, prepared to spring into action. His wrist flicked and rolled in deadly circles sending his blade in mesmerizing spirals of flashing metal.

The moment a man off to Aramis’ right raised a foot to lunge forward the marksman’s face split once more into that feral wolf-like grin. Up came Aramis’ sword came up to challenge his foe’s, and with a twist of his wrist and a shove more forceful than normal, he caused the man to stumble back for several steps.

The world seemed to slow then, the air filled with the sound of harsh breathing and everything moved as if through the thickest of mud. It likely only lasted for a second, two at most, but in the midst of that stillness, it seemed to Porthos as if a great measure of time elapsed while each man took stock of his opponent. Then, as if the spell had been broken, Aramis unleashed a roar, the likes of which both impressed Porthos and made his blood freeze. All of Hell broke loose then, swords arcing and colliding, the ringing of steel deafening, and the stench of blood bombarded their noses and left them on the edge of retching.

Through the first few contacts Porthos managed to track Aramis’ well-being as his brother was far beyond registering pain. However the fight was yet in its early stages when Porthos could no longer tell who the blood staining Aramis’ skin and clothes belonged to.

 

Once Aramis committed to his private war, Athos stood and nudged d’Artagnan to gain his attention. “William’s no fool,” he whispered and pointed off toward the edge of the wood to their left. There the Englishman was backing his way to the cover of the trees, and Athos doubted not that their mark would make his escape the instant he entered the tree line. “Sneak around behind him. When he gets to the trees, take him.”

D’Artagnan signaled his understanding and darted off to complete his task. Meanwhile Athos turned his gaze to the bloodshed before him.

All seven men yet stood, but none remained unscathed. At least two of them seemed to be reaching the limits of their endurance. Fighting, after all, is no easy task, and when one is locked in combat with a berserker, tiring most assuredly signaled oncoming death. Three hits later, the man who’d initiated the fight fell to his knees under the power of Aramis’ attack. Aramis brought his sword ‘round in mighty swing and lodged the blade deep in the man’s neck, his sword not designed for a clean beheading. Nevertheless, the weapon was stuck fast, and Aramis did not waste time attempting to free it. Instead he switched to attacking left-handed with his main gauche.

The entire maneuver, from death stroke to change in tactics, was risky and left much of Aramis undefended. A normal man, in fact Aramis outside of his berserker rage, would not have survived those defenseless moments. However, Athos managed to free his pistol in time to wound the man arcing his sword down toward Aramis’ exposed back. While he preferred to have delivered a killing shot, he was content to take the man out of the fight for a few moments.

Hearing snapping twigs off to his left, Athos peered in that direction and saw d’Artagnan succeeding in his assigned task. They exchanged a quick nod, and Athos focused on the fight once again. The scent of blood, sweat, and a hint of urine had finally reached his place at the forest’s edge causing him to duck his head so that his nose was partially tucked away in his scarf. Whoever decided death in battle was glorious had obviously never witnessed it. It smelled wretched, and there was nothing visually appealing about it. Athos looked to the fallen man and saw his clothes soaked with all manner of bodily fluids. Where was the glory in that?

He spared a glance at Porthos and noted the way his chest rose and fell, the steadiness of it suggesting the wounded man had lost consciousness. At least the battle was drifting away from his brother; he wondered if it was an intentional act on Aramis’ part, if anything other than killing was intentional at the moment.

A pained shriek had Athos whipping his head back to the action just as a second man fell, arms juggling the intestines spilling out of his split abdomen. At some point during Athos’ inattention, Aramis had taken possession of a sword, and with that sword he cleaved and hacked away at the four remaining men.

As the energy of Grim’s men waned, the fight rose in pace and intensity. Those men yet living were not particularly keen to die there in that meadow, so they fought with renewed passion, their only desire to live through to tomorrow. Yet four men defending their lives was not nearly enough to overcome Aramis fighting to avenge his injured brother.

The next two men to meet their end went together, Aramis’ main gauche in one and stolen sword in the other. With only two foes remaining Athos was better able to note the state of Aramis’ clothing. There was hardly a clean patch of cloth or leather left on him. _There’s so much blood, too much blood_ , he thought as Aramis continued his dance of death. He wondered who would need the physician more, Porthos or Aramis?

Crashing in the woods behind him brought Athos back to the present, and seconds later Captain Tréville was at his side saying something about having secured both William the Grim and his wife. Through all of this, Athos never looked at Tréville; he only watched Aramis, saw his boots slip across the blood slicked earth.

Aramis crashed to the ground and landed heavily on his back, the air fleeing his lungs and leaving him gasping for a moment. One of his opponents drew near and raised his sword with an exhausted look of triumph; apparently the other was content to watch the Musketeer die. The very second Aramis’ left arm once again responded to his will, he struck the man with his knife, slicing through the leather of his boots to sever the Achilles tendon and send the man crashing to his knees.

Having temporarily taken care of that man, Aramis rolled to his feet and advanced upon the final lackey. So terrified was the last man that as he stumbled away from the fearsome Musketeer covered in blood like war paint, a damp patch spread over the front of his pants, and he turned pale as a ghost. Aramis slit his throat, and calmly walked behind the man yet bleeding on his knees. Taking his head in both hands, the marksman wrenched his the skull to one side until the telltale crack signaled the snapping of the neck.

Aramis stood swaying for several seconds that all those observing the scene felt like an eternity. Athos stepped into the meadow while everyone else (with the exception of Porthos) held their breath.

“Aramis,” Athos said, his voice hardly louder than the volume suitable for conversation in a quiet room. “He’s safe. Porthos is safe.”


	3. Chapter 3

He blinked his shuddering eye lids several times, an ineffective attempt to clear the haze from his vision. Through the sluggishly abating fog Aramis could see Athos’ mouth moving, but he could neither hear nor comprehend the message. He heard nothing but a roaring in his ears, a truly discomforting sound when coupled the numbness of his body and the occasional painful tingling which signaled the reawakening of his nerves. While every moment prior seemed to occur with a slowness relative to running through water, his perception righted itself so that time seemed to advance with alarming speed, and ere his mind had a chance to adjust, he was on his hands and knees heaving.

Suddenly Athos knelt at his side, a cool, ungloved hand settling with blessed gentleness on the nape of Aramis’ overheated and sweat slicked neck. As Aramis remained bent over the earth and supporting his body with quaking limbs, the thundering in his ears lessened to a ringing which, after several minutes, gave way to the distant sound of Athos’ voice.

“Are you with me, Aramis?”

Athos cast a glance to where Tréville had settled beside Porthos to assess the damage wrought by the musket ball. From the absence of any relief on the Captain’s face or in his posture Athos guessed Porthos needed medical care desperately, but as luck would have it, the Musketeer most qualified for the treatment of such wounds and digging the ball from Porthos’ traumatized body was suffering through the terribly unpleasant effects of his battle rage.

Athos took stock of Aramis’ condition and found himself as dissatisfied with Aramis’ health as Tréville had been with Porthos’. Aramis panted for breath and shook like a sapling under the force of a fearsome gale. His brother hadn’t indicated that he was in pain, nor had he acknowledged Athos’ verbal prompting. Aramis’ lack of response severely limited Athos’ ability to help him.

Even if Aramis was communicating, Athos wasn’t sure how helpful his brother would be. Once before the marksman’s left leg had been broken during a berserk battle, and he’d failed to feel the pain until well after the bone was set. He hadn’t even been the one to notice it; it was Porthos who first noted the unnatural shape of Aramis’ leg and forced the man to sit down before he caused himself further damage.

Thus Athos longed for buckets of clean water so he could rinse away all of the blood and then determine the cost of Aramis’ reckless fury, the price of their brotherhood. For all Athos knew the mission could yet claim two of his brothers ere the sun set.

“Aramis,” Athos murmured when Tréville began issuing orders to the Musketeers who’d accompanied him to the meadow. After d’Artagnan was commanded to make haste to Paris for a doctor, Athos’ focus was drawn back to his companion by an unsteady hand taking a weak hold of his coat front. “Aramis?”

The marksman tipped his head to visually locate Athos, and the elder man quickly took note of the immensely dilated pupils which had consumed Aramis’ chocolate brown irises. Aramis’ fight to keep his eyes open was obvious, each blink carrying him closer to the point when his eyes would remain closed. Athos was in no way surprised; his brother’s fury had been burned away by the rapid clash of steel leaving exhaustion in its wake.

“Porfos?” Aramis whispered, his lethargy inhibiting his speech and thus his ability to properly pronounce the name.

“Safe. Tréville’s watching over him.”

He gave no clue concerning his opinion of the news, assuming he was yet awake enough to form an opinion on anything. With every passing second he leaned closer to Athos until he collapsed on Athos’ lap where he shivered once before settling and allowing his eyelids to remain shuttered against the light.

“Aramis, you have to stay awake.” Athos shook Aramis with slight force in deference to any possible injuries. “Aramis, open your eyes.” But it was no use; Aramis had joined Porthos in sleep and likely would not wake for some time. Athos’ hand settled over his little brother’s chest, felt the rapid drumming of his heart and quick intake of breath. He locked eyes with Tréville and saw the hard determination grow in his commander’s stance. _They’re going to survive this._ Tréville gave a small dip of his head which Athos returned. Then Tréville looked away, barking orders once more. It was high time they returned to Paris.


	4. Chapter 4

Many times in the past Tréville had been witness to men succumbing to fits of animalistic rage, but he’d never seen Aramis in such a state. He, of course, had been informed the few times when this happened before, but the tales fell short of the actual event and he’d only see the battle’s conclusion. Only two opponents were left with four already dispatched to whatever afterlife they believed in, and there in that field of death Tréville was reminded of the lengths Aramis would go to to ensure the survival of his brothers.

When the last man fell to the earth, Tréville held his right hand up to keep the small force of Musketeers from rushing into the clearing, and he looked to Athos, trusting his second’s instinct and experience over his own in this situation. He stood patiently by while Athos observed his unsteady brother.

“I can’t help them both,” admitted Athos.

“Tell me what you need.” Tréville kept his voice low, unwilling to prematurely break the relative stillness settling over the area.

“Leave your weapons here,” Athos decided even as he began divesting himself of his own. “I’ll see to Aramis. If he doesn’t try to kill me, check on Porthos. Move slowly. Go alone.” And with that Athos took a cautious step from the shelter of the forest, and as soon as Tréville was certain it was safe, he followed after.

Porthos was on his back, and a ragged hole in coat framed the bloody wound beneath. Tréville briefly pondered why, if they were running _from_ Grim and his men, the ball entered from the front. He’d found no other wound, so that spot on the left side of Porthos’ ribs _had_ to be the point of entry.

He tore the wounded man’s coat open and dropped his head to Porthos’ chest. Fortunately he heard none of the sounds which would indicate the shot or a shard of rib pierced the lung beneath.

Looking up he saw Aramis on his hands and knees and gasping for breath. There’d be no help on that front, a fact that both confused and irritated him, not that it would change anything. What good was vanquishing foes if it left Aramis too weak to properly care for Porthos? Judging by the blood yet leaking from the wound, Porthos was still in danger of dying from blood loss, and what good would Aramis fury do then? But these wonderings did no one any good, so he forced every useless thought aside and got back to the task at hand.

He produced a folded kerchief from within his coat and pressed it against the hold in Porthos’ chest. The injured man released a groan in response to the pressure but remained far from consciousness. _We need a physician_. His eyes sought out Athos and Aramis once more, and he understood that very soon he’d have two unconscious men in need of a physician. He had no idea how Aramis might react if Athos left, so sending Athos wasn’t a possibility. He turned his head and searched his men for someone Athos and d’Artagnan would trust to collect a doctor capable of tending Porthos and Aramis. D’Artagnan was fidgeting near the forest’s edge, apparently unsure of his role in the moment, so Tréville came to a decision and waved the Gascon over.

“Ride back to Paris. Find a doctor for those two. Wait for us at the garrison.”

D’Artagnan hesitated for a second, his eyes drifting to Athos who gave a solemn nod. Then the young man rushed away to complete his task.

After d’Artagnan left, Tréville assigned a group of men as rear guard. Eventually Grim’s men would search for him, and Tréville preferred not to be surprised should the ruffians stumble upon the Musketeers. Next he sent a group of men to escort Grim to the horses and then on to Paris. While in some minds two Musketeers in need of aid was sufficient justification for the delayed completion of a mission, the king could not be counted among them. Tréville did not doubt that the First Minister would ensure the king’s displeasure with the Musketeers should such an eventuality become reality.

With a third of their force ahead and a third behind, those remaining would return to their horses with Tréville and Athos. Through the flurry of movement and sound that stemmed from the fulfillment of Tréville’s orders, the captain saw Aramis move and heard Athos speaking. As the younger of the pair slowly collapsed upon the elder, Tréville looked down at Porthos and shook his head. “You two are like children. Where you go he follows, and you follow after him.”

When his gaze returned to Athos, he found worry in those cool eyes, so he displayed every confidence he possessed for Athos to see. They would bury no Musketeers that day. Tréville watched hope’s roots dig deeper in Athos’ eyes, and when he felt Athos fully received his message, he called on several Musketeers to help carry Aramis and Porthos back to the horses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same content, different perspective. More soon! :)


	5. Chapter 5

Athos spent much of the ride back to Paris strangely thankful that Grim had managed to come so close to the capital city before the Musketeers were tasked with stopping him. Truly it was distressing for the nation (and spoke loudly of the Red Guards’ ineptitude), but it meant the return journey took little more than an hour. Even so Porthos grew paler with every mile, and Aramis grew restless. The marksman’s head rolled back and forth on Athos’ shoulder, his body suffering through the consequences of his berserker rage. They were drawing nigh to the city’s gates when Aramis roused and went rigid in Athos’ arms. A pitiful moan escaped him as he curled around his sword arm.

“Aramis?” Being seated behind his brother, Athos could not see the cause of Aramis’ affliction.

The marksman hissed several breaths before spitting, “Cramp.”

Athos threw a glance at Tréville who nodded toward their destination thereby releasing them to ride ahead. Athos dipped his head in thanks, tightened his arms around Aramis, and urged his mount onward through the streets of Paris.

When they rode into the garrison, d’Artagnan was pacing to and fro across the yard. He hurried over to them once the horse came to a halt, and he caught Aramis’ weight as Athos cautiously removed him from the horse’s back.

“Did you find a physician?” Athos inquired, sliding down and taking some of Aramis’ weight.

“Fortunately Paean is available. He’s waiting in the infirmary.”

As they hobbled along with Aramis holding his cramping right arm to his chest and hardly lifting his feet to stumble between them, Athos thanked the heavens for d’Artagnan securing Paean’s services. Paean was one of the few doctors in Paris experienced in caring for wounds typical of soldiers in addition to his skill in treating maladies common to the masses. He also happened to be the only physician Aramis readily trusted with the care of his brothers, and after the day’s earlier events, Athos was certain Paean would be the only doctor Aramis would allow in the same room with Porthos.

“Athos, Aramis,” Paean greeted with calm professionalism once they entered the garrison’s infirmary. The physician’s eyes studied Aramis and remained upon the marksman even as he asked, “How far behind is Porthos?”

“Several minutes maybe,” Athos grunted while he and d’Artagnan lowered Aramis onto a cot near the middle of the row against the wall shared by the door.

“d’Artagnan, can you check on that warm water?”

Off the Gascon scurried, and Paean moved to stand two feet in front of where Aramis sat huddled and grimacing, the muscles of his arm yet painfully tight.

“This hasn’t happened in a while,” commented the physician as he inched closer to the wounded man. Apparently d’Artagnan had explained the situation in detail. “I take it this is d’Artagnan’s first time witnessing this particular act of brotherhood.”

“It is.”

Paean hummed in response before muttering, “Warn me if he looks like he’s about to strangle me.”

Athos couldn’t help but smile at the statement, it being a reference to the first time any of them experienced Aramis after such a display of fury. It’d taken a handful of men to pry Aramis off of Paean and convince the marksman that Paean was a friend. It hadn’t been a particularly entertaining episode, but Athos appreciated the physician making light of it every time since, the levity a strange sort of refreshing during moments when stress and panic could easily reign supreme.

“Help me get his coat off?” Together they were able to remove Aramis’ coat, boots, and shirt by the time d’Artagnan returned with Serge following close behind, each carrying a basin of heated water. They placed the water down on a side table adjacent to Aramis’ bed, and Serge left at once to put more water over the fire in the event that more should be required.

“If you don’t need me, I’ll go see what’s keeping the others.” D’Artagnan barely received a response from Athos and Paean before he was striding out of the infirmary in search of Porthos, Tréville, and the others.

“Man of action, is he?” Paean submerged a cloth in warm water and had Athos gently wrap it around Aramis’ sword arm and massage the taut muscles beneath. While Athos worked to ease the cramping muscles in Aramis’ arm, Paean went about washing away the blood painting portions of Aramis’ torso and arms.

Bruises blossomed over much of the marksman’s upper body, and there was no reason to suspect the same wasn’t true of the rest of him. Joining the mottled flesh were numerous wounds Paean knew to be caused by a blade. On Aramis’ left arm there were two slices which the physician suspected came from a single attack delivered while the arm had been bent thus creating two separate wounds, one on the lower bicep and one on the upper forearm. His right side sported a slice that would likely require stitches near its middle where the sword bit deepest, but worse than that was the gash dividing Aramis’ back from right shoulder to left hip.

“Luck of the devil,” Paean remarked in awe.

Athos raised his head, an eyebrow rising of its own accord. “What?”

“The blow that caused this, it should have damaged his spine. It seems the blade barely grazed the center of his back before returning to its previous depth.”

As Paean rose to collect bandages, needle, and thread, several sets of heavy footsteps rushed toward the infirmary. Tréville and d’Artagnan appeared in the doorway carrying Porthos between them. They shuffled to a bed near Aramis and Athos and lowered the unconscious Musketeer to the cot with the utmost caution. A groan that tapered to a whimper escaped Porthos, and Aramis’ head shot up in response to the sound, his body rocking forward as if he intended to stand and move closer to his bleeding brother.

Paean dropped a hand to Athos’ shoulder on his way to Porthos’ side. “I need you to keep Aramis distracted while I get Porthos sorted. I didn’t find any head wounds, so knock him out if you have to, but I don’t want him aggravating his back or putting any weight on that knee.”

Athos followed Paean’s eyes to Aramis’ right knee which was now clearly swollen; he wordlessly signaled his understanding and returned his attention to the brother beside him. “Aramis?” He spoke softly still not wanting to startle the younger man. When Aramis lifted his head, Athos felt the warmth of relief flood his heart to see his friend becoming ever more aware of the world around him even if he did look like he was about to drop from exhaustion at any moment.

“Athos?” he breathed.

The elder Musketeer hesitated for a second as he considered the best way to phrase what he was about to ask, wanting to use whatever would be most effective in getting his brother to comply. In the end he chose to play on Aramis’ concern for his brothers because he knew it would still be abnormally intense for the next few hours at the very least. “I’m feeling rather tired. Do you think we could lie down?”

Aramis immediately gave a shaky nod, and together with Athos he tipped sideways onto the thin mattress. Athos guided him down onto his left side in deference to the injuries on his right side and back. Once horizontal the elder tangled his left hand in Aramis disheveled hair while his right continued to work the sore muscles of his brother’s right arm although their tightness had eased significantly. Having cocooned Aramis with their backs turned to Porthos, Athos sent a nod to Paean who took it as a sign to tend to Porthos without fearing Aramis jumping in the way.

 

Tréville watched some of the tension leak from Aramis’ frame when Athos’ voice filled the air. From where he stood on the other side of Porthos he caught snatches of the tales told by his second. “Remember that time when we had to dress as women…”and “Do you remember how red the Cardinal’s face got the time we…”. Despite the situation they currently found themselves in, Tréville couldn’t help but smile at the memories Athos chose to call upon.

As Paean dug into Porthos’ chest for the musket ball, Tréville held to Athos words with desperation, and a quick glance at d’Artagnan and further to Aramis proved that he was not alone in this. When the movements of Paean’s instruments made sickening wet noises as they moved within Porthos, when the bear of a Musketeer’s breath hitched, when he released the most pitiful of noises in protest against the pain, Athos adjusted the volume of his voice accordingly, and every conscious man present was grateful for it.

By the time Paean began placing stitches in Porthos’ side, Tréville knew from the easy rise and fall of Aramis’ chest that the young man had given in to his exhaustion. No longer needed by Porthos, the captain moved to speak with Athos for the first time since they’d stood at the edge of the clearing.

“How is he?”

“According to the good doctor, he’s lucky. He should be paralyzed or worse, but he escaped with a few nasty slices that require needlework. Unsurprisingly he’s covered in bruises, and if the swelling is anything to go by, he won’t be using that right leg for a while.”

Tréville digested the news and laid a hand on Aramis’ brow. “At least he hasn’t got a fever.”

“Aramis may not, but Porthos does,” d’Artagnan sighed from where he remained at Porthos’ side. “Between the blood loss and the fever, will he make it?”

Ere anyone could breathe to answer Aramis twitched and loosed what was nothing less than a growl. Three glares were sent in the young Gascon’s direction along with a soft chorus of “ _d’Artagnan!_ ”

“He’s that protective even in his sleep?” The youngest Musketeer asked.

“Always,” murmured Athos.

A minute later Paean finished tending Porthos and returned to Aramis’ bedside. “I’ll stitch and bandage the open wounds and then take a look at his knee; other than that, we’ll need to watch them through the night. There’s really nothing more we can do right now.”


	6. Chapter 6

Once Porthos and Aramis were settled, Paean returned to his family for the night while Tréville dragged Athos away to get cleaned up, eat, and make a formal report. Thus d’Artagnan found himself alone with his injured comrades. The stillness of the infirmary was pierced only by Porthos’ cautious and hissed breathing. He supposed he should appreciate the quiet given that his brothers were seldom so and when they were it was rarely for long, but the relative absence of sound from them crawled under his skin and put him on edge.

Before Athos had been shooed from the room, he’d resisted their captain long enough to tell d’Artagnan, “Aramis will be quiet for a time, but he’ll likely grow restless. Just…try to keep him calm.” As the youngest of the four Musketeers set to pacing the length of the room he decided that Athos’ instruction was rather like reading the first page of a book and yet expecting to know how the story ends. Had Athos told him to keep Aramis calm the day before, d’Artagnan would have approached the task with a certain level of confidence, but that confidence was wiped away in a matter of moments. After witnessing the fierce depths and expression of Aramis’ protective nature, d’Artagnan was no longer sure yesterday’s methods of calming the marksman would be any more effective than trying to blow storm clouds away.

Frustrated with his task but entirely unwilling to leave his brothers in search of clarification, he dropped onto a chair between Aramis and Porthos. Being seated did nothing relieve the restlessness vibrating through him, but it did make it easier to keep an eye on the men beside him. _Perhaps Aramis will be fine until Athos comes back_ , d’Artagnan thought and considered knocking on the wood of his chair and yet refrained because in that instant it seemed a foolish and childish thing to do.

Nearly an hour after d’Artagnan’s legs began bouncing in jittery rhythms, Aramis broke the silence of the infirmary. A low groan escaped him while his head rolled from side to side, making d’Artagnan cringe as his fear became reality.

Was Aramis lost in a nightmare, or did his discomfort stem from his physical state? When Aramis unleashed a second groan, d’Artagnan abandoned his caution as well as his chair and settled on the cot, his hip pressed to Aramis’. He racked his brain, attempting to recall if he’d ever seen Athos and Porthos settle Aramis, and if he had, how in God’s name had they done it? Coming up with nothing he decided to just try something, anything.

He placed his hand on Aramis’ warm brow, and he exhaled in relief when his brother relaxed in response. With Aramis still yet again, d’Artagnan returned to his chair with his arm resting against his friend and allowed his own weariness overcome him. Sleep came quickly to the young Musketeer and so thoroughly that he jumped from his chair and nearly half way across the infirmary when something heavy collided with his crossed feet, tearing him from slumber.

“Porthos?” For now that d’Artagnan’s eyes were open, he saw that one of Porthos’ feet had been the offending object. The bear of a man lumbered across the gap between his bed and his brother’s, right arm wrapped around his injured and aching left side and a wince in his eyes. “Porthos, you should be in bed.”

“I should be right where I am. How is he?” With uncharacteristic tentativeness, Porthos pulled back the thin blanket drawn up over Aramis chest, and his brow furrowed when he was met with the sight of bandages curling their way around much of his brother’s torso as well as half of his left arm. D’Artagnan stood silent while Porthos hand drifted over the white material and paused over the few spots stained varying shades of red and maroon. His trembling hand finished its journey and settled upon Aramis’ forehead, and Porthos sighed at the heated flesh he encountered. “Do we have any cool water?”

The Gascon cast about, having suddenly forgotten the contents of the room. “No.”

“We need some. Now.”

“Porthos, I won’t leave. I _can’t_ leave you-“

“d’Artagnan, _please_.”

There was a feverish desperation shining in Porthos’ eyes, and d’Artagnan wondered if denying his brother would cause the wounded man to get the water himself. But having no desire to test such an outcome, he raised his hands palms out in surrender and dashed out to fetch the water.

 

Athos tried incredibly hard not to run back to the infirmary once the Captain dismissed him, but by the time he reached the stairs he gave up, taking them two and three at a time despite the darkness that enveloped the garrison yard like a shroud. He was moving at a brisk pace and nearly half way to his destination when he saw d’Artagnan. He called his friend’s name, and the look of relief that washed over the young man’s face made Athos’ stomach roll and threaten to expel what little dinner he’d eaten. In order for d’Artagnan to look relieved there first had to be something worrying him.

“d’Artagnan, what’s wrong? What’s happened?” he asked, taking the young man by the shoulders and searching his eyes for any indication of the problem.

“Aramis was restless, but I handled it, and I must’ve fallen asleep because then Porthos tripped on me. Athos, I swear I didn’t want to leave them, but Porthos told me to get water, and thought better me than him.”

By the time d’Artagnan ceased his stammering, Athos had already resumed his near-jog in the direction of Porthos and Aramis.

“Athos?” the Gascon called after him.

“Get the water.”

Before the noble Musketeer knew it, he was in front of the infirmary door and pushing inside. He found Porthos sitting at the edge of a chair between his recently vacated bed and Aramis’, one hand continuously pushing Aramis’ wavy hair back and the other lightly resting on Aramis’ bare arm.

“He’s got a fever, Athos.”

Athos couldn’t decide if Porthos’ comment was amusing or absolutely ridiculous, although if it was amusing it was only because Porthos knew without looking who had entered the room. Athos leaned more toward ridiculous. “As did you when last I checked. Why aren’t you in bed?”

“Last time I saw this idiot he was fighting six men like a demon, and I know how he gets, Athos. I had to see how lucky we were this time.”

Coming around to the side of the bed opposite Porthos, Athos scanned their unconscious and increasingly restless brother, reacquainting himself with Aramis’ injuries that he might give Porthos a proper account of the marksman’s health. “He managed not to break anything, but there’s the usual bruising. Fortunately he avoided being stabbed although they came rather close on his right side. There’s a slice on his left arm and a gash across his back that Paean says should have crippled him. Other than that, he’s done an incredible job of spraining his right knee; we’ll probably have to hobble him to make sure he’s stays off of it.”

A small smile and soft chuckle escaped Porthos although his eyes never left Aramis. “I’m sure he’ll love that.”

“Then I think you should be the one to tell him,” d’Artagnan commented as he placed the bowl of cool water on the bedside table.

“I can’t; I’m wounded,” Porthos stated and wet a cloth to lay it across Aramis’ forehead.

“I’d be more inclined to believe that if you were still in bed.”

Athos, having had similar conversations with Porthos on previous occasions, wisely refrained from commenting on the matter. Instead he looked over the bandages once more and frowned at the splotches of crimson. He took his time unwinding and replacing them, mindful of whatever nightmare seemed to be tightening its grip on his younger brother.

Porthos and d’Artagnan ceased their playful bickering when Aramis’ gasped in his sleep, and d’Artagnan, standing at the foot of the bed, leaned in to better observe the scene. “Is it Savoy, do you think?”

“Savoy wasn’t the first hell he survived, you know,” Porthos answered.

“And it certainly wasn’t the last,” added Athos. “And not every unpleasant dream is a memory. The mind can be its own worst enemy.”

“I once dreamed that my breakfast tried to kill me. It was awful.” Porthos shook his head to banish the images of the warrior-king apple and grapefruit assassin that had plagued him for three consecutive nights.

Just then Aramis whimpered and his entire frame jolted as his mind fled from his terror into wakefulness. The wave of pain that followed his sudden movement drew a low groan from him.

“Easy, Aramis.”

The nauseating pain pulsing through Aramis’ mind made way for the confusion that invaded his exhausted senses. He forced his eyes open, and a frown joined the wince scrunching his features. “Porthos? Why aren’t you in bed?”

Athos did not have to utter the words ‘I told you so’ because his raised eyebrow and the concealed smile twitching at the corner of his mouth said it for him. Of course Porthos ignored this entirely.

“I had to make sure you weren’t dying on me.”

“Me?” Aramis’ voice held a note of disbelief and lack of understanding unique to the absolutely weary. “ _You_ were bleeding everywhere.”

Porthos dropped his head to the mattress and abandoned the argument. He knew full well not to engage Aramis in verbal sparring after these berserk occurrences until his friend had truly rested; otherwise his younger brother wasn’t quite returned to the world of reason, or at least his typical level of it.

“You both need some rest.”

“Athos, a blind man could see how tired you and d’Artagnan are. We all would benefit from sleep,” Aramis corrected his friend. Leave it to Aramis to be wounded and so physically overtaxed that his eyes blinked rapidly in an attempt to remain open and yet still be more concerned with the well-being of his brothers.

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes, but Athos cast a glance at the bed at his back. “d’Artagnan, help me move this.” Together they pushed the bed up against Aramis’, and then Athos helped Porthos around to the newly joined cot so that he could be beside Aramis without potentially lying on his injured side. From there Athos resumed his earlier place on Aramis’ right while the Gascon settled on Porthos’ other side.

Porthos and Aramis succumbed to sleep almost immediately after they’d all taken a place on the beds, but Athos and d’Artagnan fought slumber for a while longer, choosing instead to maintain vigilance over their feverish friends. As the injured men drifted deeper into their rest, they’re temperatures lowered more and more, even after their watchful companions joined them in sleep and no longer bathed their brows.

 

When Paean and Captain Tréville entered the infirmary the next morning, this was the scene that greeted them. The four of them at ease and deep in sleep. The price of their brotherhood paid and survival ensured, there was little left to do but heal and pray that should such unbridled fury be required again, it would be long in coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is that the end? You bet it is. I have been asked about prequels and a sequel, so if you liked this story, stick around because, God willing, there’s going to be more in this berserker ‘verse.
> 
> HUGE CREDIT TO RIVERSIDEWREN for the apple, warrior king of fruit, and the grapefruit assassin. Those are 100% hers and can be found in her fantastic fic “The Coming Storm” which is the sequel to the magnificent “Silent Night”. You can find her on fanfiction.net :D
> 
> To everyone who read, reread, commented, subscribed, and or bookmarked: Thank you so much! This fic has pushed me as an author, and you have made this entirely worth the effort and growth. :)


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